Silent Realms
by Jina E. Evergeen
Summary: Diaval dreams of winged wonders, and his sleeping state delivers words to blossom on his lips he never thought he'd utter. Maleficent is always there to hear.


**Silent Realms**

**By Jina E. Evergreen**

* * *

_**Diaval dreams of winged wonders, and his sleeping state delivers words to blossom on his lips he never thought he'd utter. Maleficent is always there to hear. **_

* * *

Diaval lies amidst the embrace of the green grass, human limbs sprawled bizarrely, entangled in the living, breathing bundles. With each pulse of his heart, the ground beneath him shifts and responds. Mild and reassuring, it whispers ancient chants in his ear. Underneath him is the soft, primordial earth, above him are the inky canvas of the night sky, sprinkled with stardust— two lovers ever last. He is all that stands between them, caught in their cradle, wrapped in their loving care. This is why the Moors are wondrous— they smell of life. Fairy, ethereal and enticing. Gods, they are a mirror of his mistress. Only she is darker, and has the scent of solitude all over her pale self.

Diaval reaches out an open palm, a pleading hand seeking to seize the dark side of the moon. Perhaps it will turn out to be less mysterious than Maleficent and her tiger-like eyes. He breathes in, inhaling the cool midnight air.

He will never get used to it— drinking in the life through human senses. It is a gift, a divine present for an earthly creature. He's never asked Maleficent what she rescued him from the gaping jaws of death for, naturally. She would never answer. She would only stare with those ever-knowing, monstrous pools of liquid hazel, stare until she carved holes through him and broke him. Then she would revel in her bloodlessly achieved, violent victory.

He will simply never know. And there he is, already tired at the prospect of spending the rest of his days in the shadow of that quiet, winged goddess, all the while not knowing why he has been allowed at her side. His eyelids press down with the weight of a thousand raven feathers; his eyes desperately burn for sleep. Diaval lets them close, the stilled beauty of his mistress still dancing across his dreamy mind. He drifts off to senseless sleep, but finds his dreamlands invaded, conquered by the sweetest of nightmares.

She is in his dreams again.

It begins as a whisper. A promise. The lightest of breezes dance across the gleaming lake he has found himself in. He floats through the sheen waters, amidst giant lilies and bewitched cane. He feels as light as when he flies as raven. And even lighter when the whisper comes along. Ah, the whisper. She is the whisper. He is the promise. The breeze is their vow, the unspoken one.

She half-walks half-swims towards him. Her body is sunk into the opaque water from the waist down, and her dark gown is wet and clings to her form rather possessively. Her wings are like a cloak of grey dust behind her, and her horns are twisted, feral, flawless. They are like a crown, Diaval thinks, as though the gods knew all along that she would make a queen one day, and decided to entwine a royal tiara in her hair the very day they made her. And, gods, her hair! It's a tangle of writhing snakes and worms and dancing shadows.

Everything about her screams her lineage to the world, and Diaval has long since forgotten how to not contemplate on her being.

As she approaches, he shudders with a thrill he only gets when he is human, _man_. As Maleficent moves through the layers of water, the liquid around her doesn't splash. It glides along with her, it hugs her, escorts her on her way like a faithful servant. An eel crawls its way to the surface of the water. Its husks are slick and glister an alluring green and gold— just the color of her ghostly eyes. The snake's elongated body portrays a complex round of serpentines in the water, and moves to closen in on Maleficent.

Diaval immediately tenses, ready to jump through air and water, time and space to keep her safe and sound. He can't remember when this, protecting her, has started being more a soulcraft than a duty. But there is no need, he sees, as his mistress slides her hand across the head of the reptile, fingers softly trailing down the line of its scaly length. The creature hisses in contempt.

Of course she needs no rescue. She is, after all, nothing like those queens of mankind, who only eat and sing and fatten, bear sons and die forgotten. No, she is the queen o'beasts, and fears nothing, knows only how to be feared. It's both thrilling and heartbreaking, and Diaval is torn between the two. She is strong, almighty, now that she is whole again. And for her sake, he is glad. But there was a time when her wings were nothing but two parched coals rooted to her back. A time when she, as she was drowning in the seas of sorrow, arrived to sweep him away from death and life the way he knew it, give him hundreds of forms and senses. There was a time, indeed, when she would come to him and call him _wings of mine_. A time when he was needed.

She doesn't need him anymore, and yet he clings to her and she allows it. It's a riddle he will forever seek to solve.

She comes closer now. Their gazes cross paths in a skirmish, and he feels the worms of something he cannot quite define creep up his spine. Cold like ice and hot like fire. Their stares battle still, though Diaval knows not over what they're fighting. Although Maleficent's face is frozen like wax, her eyes narrow and pool with feral curiosity.

"Little bird."

The words fall elegant and measured from her red, red lips. For some reason, they sound more like a question than a statement. She always does that. Seeks with her eyes. Hunts for answers from within him. But how can he possibly deliver what she desires when he has no notion what her question is? Does she question his loyalty? It's been proven a thousand times, unconditional and forged in the red steam of war. Does she doubt the purity of his origins? He isn't man by birth— he is a raven. But she treats all beings equally, she's proved that much— so it makes no sense. What does she ask of him then? Does she even ask, or does she simply wonder?

He can't read her all too well, even after all these years, and it bothers him. What bothers him even more is that _she_ can read _him_ with the expertise of an adept bookman.

She stops a step away from him, and already he feels the frost that she radiates nuzzle his bare chest. It's not unpleasant, her luminance. Simply not a human one. So no human can completely understand its complex nature. But then again, Diaval is nowhere near unadulterated human.

When he eventually speaks, his voice is as tender as the throat that once cawed allows him. "You should stop staring at people. It's shameless and some might feel uncomfortable."

Her look is one of cold appraisal, veiled in secrecy like death itself.

"I only stare when you stare back."

Diaval allows his lips to curve up in a grin. "Now what would sweet Aurora think of you, was she to find out how you torture your servants in their dreams?"

Maleficent's lips are dangerously close to smiling. "I don't torture. I only haunt. And, as you already pointed out yourself, Diaval, this is your dream. I do what I do, and am what I am, because you want me to, somewhere in the rear of your little birdling head."

Diaval feels the beginnings of a bold idea swell in his mind.

"And if I asked you to be something else, you'd do it?"

There was a pause. "If you're specific enough, yes. I'm not real, after all. I'm a simple replica your mind devised to entertain your midnight realms."

Indeed. Diaval is aware of his dreaming state, unlike most human beings, and his dreaming state is aware of him in return. It's only fitting, he muses. When he is a raven, he can't tell dream and reality apart. When he is a stallion, he barely allows himself to slip into a slumber. His human form is best balanced, navigating him through both the world of living, red-blooded creatures, and that of dreams and wonders and impossible colors. Both are marked by Maleficent's presence, and perhaps she is the glue that keeps them together. When he is human, both worlds are bright and vivid, and there is a certain harmony in his scattered life. Perhaps it's thanks to her indeed.

But Maleficent who stands before him isn't real. She's just a dream. So he decides to ask her the question he'll never ask her real self. "I want you to be honest," he tells her, "I want you to tell me why you saved me all those years ago."

Maleficent reaches out a pale, long-nailed hand, and crosses what scant distance separates the two of them. Her fingertips scroll lightly across the scar on his collarbone, and her touch is unearthly, ridiculously intimidating. A thousand sharpened blades are sent to dance across his stomach, accompanied by a storm of whirling butterflies. It's a breath-taking, crazed dance. Diaval flinches, but, as if chained to her hand, does not pull away. When he looks down at her, for despite her utter dominance, she still stands a head shorter, her eyes give out nothing but a drop of mischief.

When she speaks, her voice is somehow cold and soft. "I needed wings to call my own and you were standing in my way. That's all there is to it."

There's more to it than that.

"Then why are you not releasing me from my oath now, Maleficent?"

_That's_ the real question, he realizes. Since the day king Stephan was defeated and Maleficent was reunited with her wings, it has been the real question.

Her hand retracts as if he has just stung her. Her voice is all steel and iron. "Is that what you want? And it is _mistress_."

It's not what he wants, and she is more than _mistress_. When has he become so attached to this woman? She's wings and dust and blood and he can't be without her. Not only because he can't nor wishes to spend the rest of his life hiding behind the face of a single creature, but also because outside the Moors he has nothing. Maleficent is the borders of his life, borders that are constantly expanding, shifting. And he is content to live within the walls of her existence. He only wants to figure out _why_.

"It's not what I want, but don't avert my question. It is my dreamland. You're bound to answer."

"I already answered your question." _Question_ is being spoken with an almost-sneer. She is just too graceful to _actually_ sneer. "Don't overstep your rights, Diaval. If you don't want to leave my side, then stay, and keep yourself from pointless talk. That is all you're getting."

Her voice reeks of steady danger and he knows the matter is closed. Even in his dream, he can't retrieve an answer. Though now that he thinks about it, he had little chance to start with. She isn't real, this Maleficent. She is his creation and knows no better than him. Of course she has no answers. She is _empty_. He gives in and shuts his mouth. Now he has no notion what to do with her. Her eyes are on him again, and he stirs in the most inappropriate of ways. Damn that woman. She's actually making him feel uncomfortable.

"I suppose you'd like to leave my dream now," he mumbles.

She's icy on the surface, but her lively eyes crack, insulted. "Are you chasing me away?"

Diaval feels a wave of amusement tickle his insides. She can't read him all too well after all. Or it is just her own hurt pride clouding her judgment.

"Now, now, mistress," he tweets lightly, "surely you've better things to do than waste away, caged in a lifeless copy of your own self. You know, the Moors probably miss your lovely face already."

Maleficent stiffens, and he wills a charming smile to bloom on his face. He can't believe he's just called her lovely. Then again, this_ is_ a dream. Who said it had to be so strictly tied to reality?

"My... face can't be missed, for it is not absent," his mistress says, modestly cropping _lovely_ out, "My real self is always watching over the Moors, no matter whose dreams my presence is summoned to."

She says _Moors_ with such love, such tremble in her voice. It is her child and her lover, Diaval knows, all of it. He feels like an unworthy, tiny bit of it, undeserving her attentions. He unconsciously attempts to view himself through her eyes, and suddenly, he's very small. Then he realizes she has just intimidated she would stay. Even though it's just a lily dream, he feels majestic. He is overflown with... what? His smile widens, threatening to devour his face.

"You know I only jester, mistress."

She arches an eyebrow, which turns her face into a map outlining the paths of curiosity, annoyance and a touch of embarrassment. "Jester less, Diaval. Be quiet more."

He laughs, and sees her bristle angrily. She still doesn't get it, and he only laughs some more. He can't wrap his head around it. How can Maleficent be so wise and so naïve at the same time? She knows a lifetime worth of secret truths, practically walks wrapped in a shroud of wisdom, yet can't seem to understand the honest simplicity of love.

Of course, she doesn't believe in that since the day her heart got shattered. Not a day, Diaval corrects himself, but all the days before Aurora came into this world. All the time she lingered between life and death and had no ruling over her blackened core, when she looked over an empty realm and walked in the shadows along with him, when she was leaning on that rod as if it were something sacred, her final anchor in this world, all this time her heart was being shattered. And all this time she was giving up on love, bit by painful bit. He gets it. She no longer trusts her heart, and how could she? It has only just begun to mend. But he does trust his own, and loves her all the same.

And now he dreams and has the guts to say it.

"You do know you hold a very special place in my heart, don't you, Maleficent?"

Impossible as it may sound, her eyebrow shoots up even higher. "I practically hold your heart itself, little bird."

She means their oath. Apparently, she still doesn't get it. He chuckles, and wills himself to be patient with her. She is like a bruised chicken who needs to be thought how to fly anew. She is bound to be scared at first, but learn she will. "You could say that, yes," he says, "but not the way you meant it."

Her eyes narrow with the frustration of someone who is used to understanding and knowing everything, and now has a vital piece of information snatched away.

"What do you mean?"

And she looks so beautiful and dumbfounded at that instant that he simply cannot help himself. He reaches out and strokes her pointed chin. She lets him, probably too taken aback to brush him away. Her skin might look porcelain and cold like ice from afar, but underneath his careful fingers, it feels quite warm. She doesn't look taken aback at all when their eyes meet, and is still like stag under his touch. He leans in and their foreheads collide.

He feels confident as his fingers trail down the line of her jaw, then her throat, then her collarbone, then lower. Her flesh is positively burning now, and her wings flutter excitedly behind her, giving out her agitation. When the breath catches in her throat, he knows that she is willing. He seals his lips to hers, and he feels the fire of a thousand dragons rush through him as she responds. He wraps her in his arms, she wraps him in her wings, and then there's only throbbing, scratching, breathing and desire.

He calls her by her name, he calls her _mistress_ too, but in a different meaning. Loving words and muffled mantras easily find their way on his lips, and he lets them out without regrets.

She knows his meaning now.

* * *

"Diaval?"

The voice is distant, but not indistinct. It's hers. Diaval wakens to a beautiful darkness. It's still night, he still lies in the middle of the field of writhing grass. Maleficent is here now, though. She has landed on a nearby rock, her skin reflecting the light of the moon. Diaval sits up and pushes back the wave of feelings her image is arousing. It's a hard task, especially after the dream he's just had.

Reality and dream mix painfully together. He's had her. He's only just had her in his head. As everything involving her, this also leaves a cocktail of joy and sadness in its wake. He's had her, but he will never really have her. Her real self is more a mirage than the dream one.

"Mistress," he greets.

She tilts her head and looks at him from a certain angle. Her hair is like mane around her face and down her shoulders.

"Did I wake you?"

"Yes." She'd know if he lied anyway.

"Well I'm sorry."

She doesn't seem to be. She doesn't seem to be anything. Just the stony incarnation of a horned goddess he will never have.

"It wasn't an unpleasant waking," he assures her. He can't help the next question, as much as he wants to. "You usually know when I'm asleep, though."

"I thought you were sleeping at first. But you were talking."

He can feel the color drain from his face. He was talking in his sleep? He would be in for great trouble if he has said aloud less than half the things he whispered to Maleficent as they became one in his dream. His fingertips itch, his throat is dry. He is reduced to a coil of nerves. He tries to catch something in her eyes, something in her stance, something that may indicate what she has heard. But she is Maleficent and therefore gives out as deep an emotion as a marble statue without facial features.

She leaves him no choice. He needs to speak. That's easier said than done, though. His breath is shaky and his mind is blurred. Still, he finds the word he needs, if only because it is the one he says the most.

"Mistress?"

She hums lazily, then straightens. "Yes?"

"Did you hear me say... anything?"

She rewards him with a strange look, a look that says everything and anything, yet nothing. What has he said? What?

"You said many things."

"Yes, but... something that caught your attention?"

A half-smile crawls its way on her full lips. "Why do you ask?"

He scratches the back of his hed. "I'm curious."

She doesn't say anything for a long while. When she speaks, she is no longer smiling. "Don't be."

He needs to know. Gods, he needs to. He desperately searches for words, for reason, for something to hold on to. "But I—"

"Into a raven."

And she swings her slender finger in a practiced move, the world no longer making any sense. He'll simply never know.

* * *

**_Ah... yes. I'll simply never know where this has come from either. A movie worth watching, a ficlet worth... stuffing in the trash? Well, there's got to be some diversity in different forms of fiction. Thanks for reading, and I modestly hope you'll drop a comment to share your thoughts. _**


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